Deus Necros

Chapter 655: Mouse Trap

A few moments before Ludwig tore down the Imperial hall.

[You are in a hostile environment]

[Quest Daggers in Shadow has updated]

A dark ritual is currently being held underneath the Imperial Palace of Lufondal.

The current ritual is gathering and forcefully abducting souls meant for Necros, aiming to re-channel their purpose of eternal rest into vengeance and aggravation.

Solve the current predicament that is threatening the throne. And find out the identity of the Scryer.

The system window hung in Ludwig’s vision with the same indifferent calm it always carried, as if it were announcing a change in weather instead of a crime against the dead.

The ritual’s pull was subtle at first, more a pressure than a sound. A faint tug against the edges of perception, like someone trying to pull thread out of a tightly-woven cloth.

’Seems like there are a few rats here that are trying to make a mess out of this ceremony.’ Ludwig thought as he looked at the floor for but a second.

[Evil Eye activated]

[There are three targets available for Evil Eye]

[Evan Arial]

[Sebas Tulsta]

[Teresia]

Ludwig’s muscles forced themselves down to hold a smile that could have easily reached his ears.

That involuntary lift at the corners of his mouth, part amusement, part vindication, was almost annoying. It came too easy. Like a reflex he’d trained into his flesh long ago. Like his face remembered how to wear hunger.

’I never thought that I won’t have to go and look for them and instead they’d come for me.’

The names floated in front of him with clinical certainty. Not guesses. Not suspicions. Targets. His pulse, steady, slow, wrong in the way only Ludwig’s pulse could be, didn’t change, but something inside him leaned forward. Not his body. His intent.

He then raised his hand up…

Current time.

Ludwig jumped down from the hole in the floor with eyes shining bright purple aimed at the closest of the three.

He fell like a blade. Not uncontrolled, never uncontrolled, but fast enough that the air tore around him, cloak flaring and settling as he hit stone with a sound that was heavier than a normal man should make. The shock of impact traveled up through the soles of his boots and into his bones, a reminder that he was wearing flesh right now.

His eyes, though, those didn’t belong to flesh. The purple sheen wasn’t just the color of Envy. It was presence. It was a declaration. Someone was going to die today.

“Been a while! EVAN! SEBAS!”

The shout bounced off stone and ritual circles, ricocheting into corners and back again. It was too loud for secrecy, too confident for a man who was supposed to be caught in a “hostile environment.” It sounded like someone walking into a room he owned.

“Shit!” Sebas cursed as he pointed a skull adorned staff toward Ludwig.

Sebas’s stance was the tell, feet planted too wide, shoulders tense, fingers clenched around the staff as if it were the only thing keeping him upright. The skull on the staff stared with hollow sockets, mouth open in a perpetual grin, and the magic crawling along the bone was unmistakably vile.

“You weren’t supposed to be here! Die!”

The spell was of dark nature, magic that was enough to make the entirety of Lufondal chase the wielder to the edges of the empire if need be to subjugate and execute. And it was being used here underneath the palace.

“Return to dust!” Sebas said as he shot a ray of dark magic that was highly effective against Undead.

The ray lanced out like a spear of shadow, cold enough that the stone around its path frosted faintly, and the air tasted like iron as it passed. It wasn’t flame, but it burned the senses anyway. It carried certainty: end, erase, reduce.

Though Ludwig was an Undead, currently he was in [Living Vessel] form.

There was a faint, almost imperceptible shift in Ludwig’s posture as the magic struck him, shoulders rolling back a fraction, chest rising as if welcoming the hit. Not because he wanted pain, but because he understood what he was wearing right now.

The Spell that Sebas had used would have pulverized the old Ludwig to dust and forced a cycle repeat.

The shadow didn’t bite. It didn’t cling. It slid across him and dispersed like smoke meeting open air. For a heartbeat, it almost looked comical, like watching a storm try to drown a stone.

Ludwig didn’t flinch. He let Sebas see it. Let him feel the wrongness of it.

“Dark Sphere!” Evan added as he pointed at Ludwig with a long wand.

Evan’s voice had always had that sharp edge of arrogance whenever Van Dijk wasn’t around. Ludwig remembered.

Even now, even when afraid. He didn’t scream. He announced. His wand was sleek compared to Sebas’s grotesque staff, polished wood, metal inlays, a gem at the tip catching the dim light from the ritual circles.

But magic didn’t care about pretty tools. It cared about intent and fuel.

Ludwig’s eyes had been focused on Evan for the majority of the time, and right before the Dark Sphere spell was done forming. Ludwig’s smile finally crept up to his ears.

“What a good spell, it would be a shame if something were to happen to it.”

He said it softly, almost fondly. Like a man commenting on a fine wine before pouring it out.

[Evil Eye activated: Target Evan Arial]

The world answered.

Not with thunder, no spectacle, but with a quiet, horrifying correction. The sphere shuddered mid-formation as if it had been grabbed by an unseen hand. For a breath, Evan’s eyes widened, his fingers tensing around the wand as he tried to force control back.

Just as Ludwig’s words ended, the sphere that was supposed to shoot at Ludwig blew up.

The explosion wasn’t flame. It was pressure and darkness, an implosion that snapped outward. Evan’s body hit stone with a sick crack, his head rolling to the side, wand clattering out of his grasp. He slid down the wall like a puppet with its strings cut.

The smell of scorched cloth and burnt hair mixed with the ritual stench. Evan didn’t move.

Turning to the third aggressor, Ludwig noticed something strange.

She wasn’t panicking, nor worried. She was simply watching beyond her blindfold.

Teresia stood still amid the chaos as if the chaos had been scheduled. Her blindfold was clean, too clean for this place. White fabric against stone and blood and shadow. She didn’t clutch a weapon. She didn’t step back. Her face was calm, almost contemplative, like this was a demonstration and she was judging his technique.

“Seems like you’re the ringleader,” Ludwig said as he took a few menacing steps toward her, His boot dragged through a line, deliberate, slow. The symbols didn’t vanish, but the flow stuttered, like a song missing a beat. Smearing the blood magic on the floor with his foot had a purpose, a small gesture that could alter or at least destabilize the ritual magic they were attempting underneath the palace.

He watched her, not the markings. Because if she was the ringleader, she’d react to the damage, anger, urgency, calculation.

She did none of those.

“How did you know that we were here?” she asked.

Her voice was even. The question wasn’t panic. It was interest. The kind that implied she assumed there was an answer worth learning.

“Wouldn’t you want to know, Teresia the Blind.” Ludwig said.

He made her title sound like a name and a wound at once.

For the first time, during the ordeal she frowned.

The small change was almost satisfying. A crease at the bridge of her nose, the tiniest tension at the edge of her mouth. A person used to seeing the future, if not with eyes, then with whatever gift she carried, had just been confronted by a blank page.

“Quite the conundrum, isn’t it? That you’re unable to see or foretell anything about me anymore.” Ludwig said as he was face to face with her.

He stepped close enough that he could smell the faint, sterile scent of her blindfold cloth. Close enough that if she reached, she could touch him. It was a calculated cruelty, closing distance forces decisions.

Sebas on the side was too shocked to act properly as several figures dropped from the hole in the ceiling. The first thud hit like a hammer. Then another. Then another, metal boots on stone, armor shifting, blades whispering as they cleared sheaths. The sound filled the chamber with a new kind of authority.

All the figures were clad in royal armor. Red and gold, blue and silver, they immediately surrounded the underground.

Their formation was practiced, angles covered, backs protected, eyes moving in disciplined sweeps. They didn’t rush Evan. They didn’t hesitate at Sebas’s staff. Their priority was containment: no one left, nothing unexpected happened.

“Shit, this isn’t working!” Sebas howled, “You said that it was guaranteed!” he yelled at Teresia.

His voice cracked. He was sweating now; Ludwig could see it even from the corner of his eye, dark beads on Sebas’s temple, the way his grip slipped and tightened again on the staff.

But she didn’t pay him any mind.

Not a glance. Not a flinch. It was as if Sebas had already become irrelevant, an expendable piece that had served its purpose.

“Slave of Necros, why hinder us so?” she said.

The insult was delivered like a title in a court. Formal. Intentional. Designed to provoke.

Ludwig tilted his head, an arrogant downward look aimed at her, “You call me slave, when you were bound by duty and betrayed your master. Aren’t you being a hypocrite.”

His voice carried that sharp, practical contempt he reserved for people who tried to wear righteousness like armor. The kind of contempt that didn’t shout. It cuts.

“You know nothing! A mere lamb.”

“Am I now?”

Ludwig’s smile sharpened. Not wide anymore, thin, precise.

“Well, I guess you have courage to say whatever you want. Since you’re not here…”

The words landed like a knife slid under skin.

“Oh, you managed to even realize that. Not even these fools could see it. How did you?”

There it was, the first real interest, the first real shift. Not fear. Curiosity. The sort of curiosity that came from someone whose advantage had been challenged in a way she hadn’t predicted.

“Not here?” Sebas said as he was slowly being surrounded by the royal knights.

Only now did Sebas’s eyes dart around, like he was noticing the wrongness in the room, like he could suddenly feel that something wasn’t aligned with his expectations. The knights closed in another step, not rushing, just tightening the circle.

Ludwig turned to him and said, “What an idiot, you simply followed a former apostle because they said so? You didn’t even recognize you were being used. I guess Van Dijk would forever bear the mark of having you as an assistant.” Ludwig said.

He said Van Dijk’s name with deliberate ease, like Sebas’s hatred was an instrument Ludwig enjoyed plucking.

Sebas’s face contorted. The staff shook in his hand, the skull bobbing with the tremor.

“DON’T FUCKING MENTION THAT NAME!”

“You wouldn’t have had the balls to show up here if he was here too, it was only because he went to the north that you came here like a little rat.”

Ludwig’s gaze flicked over Sebas’s posture, how he leaned away from the knights, how his knees bent as if ready to bolt, not fight. The bravado was a mask barely hanging on.

Ludwig looked at the ground, “Demon summoning? Really, that’s the best you could think of.”

His eyes tracked the ritual lines again, and the faint distortion in the air where something tried to press through. Not fully manifested, half a door, half a wound. It was pathetic, in a way. Desperate.

“How did you even recognize that! This is magic too old for someone who only began learning dark magic a few years ago!” Evan said as he stood up.

Evan’s recovery was ugly. He pushed himself off the wall with a hand that shook, his breath coming in harsh pulls. His eyes weren’t fully focused, but his anger kept him upright. He stared at Ludwig as if fury could erase the pain.

“Dark magic?”

Ludwig’s smile returned, faintly amused.

“You’re making it sound like I’m the bad guy, when did I ever learn dark magic?”